


Wordless

by eleanor_lavish



Category: Bandom, MCR - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-31
Updated: 2007-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:38:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanor_lavish/pseuds/eleanor_lavish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes from a scene; From the first day, Brian has Frank's vote.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wordless

**Author's Note:**

> For Brian and Frank, whose story is too epic to be linear.

“So, what’s the verdict?” Brian leans on the side of his car, a beat up Lincoln four-door that’s part red, part rust.

Frank shrugs and settles next to him, stealing the cigarette from his fingers and hiding a grin when Brian just sighs and lights a new one. “I’m the new guy, remember? I don’t hold lots of sway,” he says, exhaling a long line of smoke. Brian runs his hand through his hair, agitated, and Frank laughs. “Don’t worry; I think Ray’s coming around.”

Brian wants this. He wants this so badly he can fucking _taste_ it, and he’s trying hard not to lose his temper and tell Ray Toro to go fuck himself. He’s been proving himself for years now in the scene, and it smarts that they don’t trust him. Frank knocks their shoulders together. “Really, it’s just a matter of time,” Frank smiles at him, honest and open. They both take a few longs drags and watch the traffic wind past on the main road. When Frank speaks again, Brian can hear the amused glint in his voice. “Work on Gerard,” he says. “Where Gerard goes, My Chem follows.”

Brian grins at their feet, lined up on the pavement. Frank’s in the same ratty Vans he wore the first time Brian saw them play, and knew he had to have that, be a part of it. “I can do that,” he smiles.

*

“Dude, what the _fuck_ ,” Frank says, but he’s laughing. Brian has this guy by the back of his hair, both of them on the ground, Brian sitting on the back of the guy’s thighs, one knee pinning an arm to the ground too. He’s pulling back the guy’s hair—spiked and dark from grease and grime--and the guy’s yelling pretty loud now, but it’s lost in the raucous cheers of the crowd around the corner.

Brian doesn’t even look up at him. “You sorry? Tell the lady you’re sorry,” Brian says and his voice is low and even. Frank looks up to see a girl of maybe seventeen, her Warped ’05 badge sticking to her sweaty arm. Her eyes are huge, and she’s not laughing, but Frank can see the corner of her mouth twitch when the guy says “Fuck, yeah, sorry, _jesus_.” Brian gives one more tug for good measure and stands up, his foot making a not too light landing on the guy’s thigh as he does.

Frank ducks his head to hide his snort. “You okay?” Brian asks the girl and she nods, eyes already starry.

“Thank you, I just—“

“Warped isn’t the best place to find a nice boyfriend,” Brian cuts her off. Frank falls into step as they walk away.

“Should I ask?” he giggles.

Brian shrugs and throws an arm over his shoulder. “I should have a fucking _cape_ ,” he says with a wide sweep of his arm.

“You should have a fucking straightjacket,” Frank retorts, but he really wishes he’d gotten a kick in while he could. He’s pretty sure the guy deserved it.

*

Fourteen days out, and Brian hasn’t had any of those hang-ups you seen in movies, where your skin itches every time you pass a bar. He’s passed half a dozen tonight alone, walking down some side streets in Malibu with Gerard chattering next to him and Bob and Frank and Ray and Worm three steps behind.

“It’s like. I know it’s a ridiculous song? Back me up, Toro!” he yells, and Brian turns to see Ray nod absently. “But I think it’ll work, even as a single. It’s going… I mean the house is fucked up but it’s really bringing out some creative—“

“Here, whoa!” Frank yells from behind them; they are already tugging open the door of a small restaurant. Frank grins and tucks his hand on Brian’s shoulder as he enters. “Tell him to shut the fuck up,” Frank mutters fondly and Brian rolls his eyes. Gerard is a nervous talker, always has been, and really? Talk about the album tracks is much more welcome than talk about the last month in Utah.

Brian ends up sandwiched between Frankie and Bob and talk turns to movies and moms and driving in LA. Safe things. Topics that don’t involve the words “rehab” and “therapy”. Brian can feel it, the way they’re being so fucking _careful_ and it’s like the walls are closing in around him. He wasn’t ever the kind of guy who needed kid gloves. He was a bare-knuckle fighter, every step of the way, and the last month was... weakness. He knows it shouldn’t be considered that, knows intellectually that this was good for him, all of it, that they care about him enough to try this hard. But he’s not fragile. He’s not… Gerard.

His knee bounces under the table and Frank thumps it once, twice with his fist. “Drinks, gentlemen?” the waitress asks, smiling, and before anyone can say anything, Gerard says “Water for the table, and Cokes.”

Brian’s jaw clenches.

“Yeah, can you put some Jack in mine?” Frank pipes up next to him. He’s not looking anywhere but the waitress, smiling happily. “Ray?” he prompts and Ray changes his order to a Magic Hat and Brian can feel where Gerard kicks at Frank under the table. But Frank’s hand is still warm on his knee and the waitress says “sure thing” and Brian feels thirty pounds lighter.

*

“He okay?”

Frank can barely make out Brian’s voice through the bunk curtain and two layers of blankets, and all he hears of Gerard’s reply is the tone, low and hushed and worried. He keeps his eyes closed and tries to focus on the steady in-and-out of his breathing, each breath stretching his chest wider than it wants to go. His limbs ache—hands and knees and each vertebra of his spine. He hears the curtains swish open and exhales sharply.

“’m okay,” he lies and Brian prods at him like he always does, like he’s got a medical degree tucked away next to his GED.

“Gerard says you had a fever.” Brian doesn’t sound concerned, just… like Brian, and Frank shrugs a little.

“'s down today. I’ll be fine.” He just needs the show, needs something to focus on that isn’t this throbbing ache everywhere. He squints his eyes open and glances at Brian. He’s just looking, neutral, like he almost trusts Frank to make the right decision. “Promise.”

Brian just nods and shakes a cigarette out of his pack. “EMTs’ll be standing by. You pass out, they’ll bring you back, and _then_ I will kick your ass in a serious, serious way. So you think really hard about this.”

Frank closes his eyes and grins. “Got it.”

“You need a shower too,” Brian says on an exhale, and Frank breathes the smoke in deep. He wants a cigarette so bad he can taste it, but his lungs would give out entirely if he tried. Brian knows it. He leans in a little farther the next time and exhales long and slow, the smoke mostly pre-filtered by Brian’s lungs, like he’s hotboxing Frank’s bunk. “It’s like you’re stewing in your own juices in there, man.”

Frank laughs, then coughs hard enough that he slams his hand into the mattress. “Thanks for that,” he mutters and Brian pushes Frank’s hair off his face.

“You’ve got eight hours to decide. And remember—deciding to go with a replacement means I save your ass kicking for another day.”

“I can do it, coach,” Frank says, a little more weakly than he’d intended and Brian just sighs.

“Your art? Not worth dying for, Iero.”

“Hey!” Gerard yells from the lounge.

*

Brian can hear Frank’s cackling from through the wall of the green room. Whatever this is, it’s either really good, or really not good.

“Oh, oh shit, Bri, you’ve got to see this,” Frank is doubled over on the plush sofa, his laptop propped on his knees. Brian raises his eyebrows in question.

“Another brilliant piece of fiction detailing Ray’s impressive anatomy?” he asks and Frank won’t stop giggling at him. It’s fucking unnerving.

“Better,” he says and turns the screen around, pressing a button. Brian is confronted with his own face, picture upon picture of himself cycling through a youtube video, and…

“Is that _Britney_?” he sputters and Frank is laughing so hard he’s crying, the heel of his hand pressed to his eyes. Brian’s pretty sure it’s a problem he can recognize “You Drive Me Crazy” as a Britney song in the first place, but the song over the splash of his face, cigarette dangling from his lips, beer in hand as he directs Frank out of some venue or another is just… surreal.

“You should see the one she has for Gerard to “Lucky”. It’s _amazing_ ,” Frank says with wide, bright eyes.

“This is sick. You, sitting here watching these,” Brian shakes his head and picks at the deli tray. Frank’s already hoarded most of the good bread, but there are some bits of provolone and cheddar, and half a bag of Doritos. He grabs a handful.

“Whatever, like you don’t love it,” Frank goads, and Brian rolls his eyes. “I told you, once Murder Scene hit, it was all over for you, dude.”

“Yeah, cause the girls love a guy who can balance a budget.”

“Fuck off, you know they only love you for your sweet ass.” Frank ducks as the Doritos come flying.

*

“Yeah, but he’s got a sweet ass,” Frank says to Matt, passing the pipe back and leaning back into the worn sofa. Matt’s place is kind of a sty, but it’s better than getting high at his mom’s. Or, better than getting in serious shit for getting high at his mom’s.

Matt kicks his shin. “God, you are so fucking gay,” he says, and Frank feels the flush of anger to his toes, kicking back with force. “Ow, fucker! What, like you’re not?”

“You know, Otter? You’re a dick,” Brian pipes up from the floor and Frank stuffs his hands in his pockets to keep from punching Matt in the face. He’s done it before and it never seems to do any good anyway.

Matt flips Brian off and stomps into the kitchen. “Hey, that’s my pipe, asshole,” Frank yells after him but he doesn’t have the energy to follow after it. “Thanks,” he says to Brian.

Brian shrugs. “Whatever. You want him to stop calling you gay, you should stop talking about guys' sweet asses, man.”

“I don’t want to stop talking about guys' sweet asses. I want him to stopping giving a shit when I do,” Frank spits out. “I want it to not be such a big fucking—“

“Hey,” Brian cuts him off, wraps his hand around Frank’s ankle from his spot on the floor. “It’s cool,” Brian grins and squeezes a little. “No explanations necessary. You do what you do, and leave Otter to me, all right? That’s what managers are for.”

Frank’s mouth is dry and he blinks down at Brian on the floor. “What’s what managers are for?” Mikey asks from the doorway and Brian smiles.

“Defending Frank’s honor,” he says and Mikey snorts.

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

*

Brian can feel the crowd, like a writhing monster. Part of him still itches to be in the middle of it, but he stands at the side of the stage, watching Gerard spit and scream, eyes scanning for issues in the crowd, kids who’ve gone down, girls who are a little overzealous. There are a few guys near the front who would be frat boys if they were in the US, and they’re yelling something that probably would make him go for his bat if it was in English, but he tries to ignore it, let it slide. Frank can see them too, front and center, and he flips them off. Brian laughs.

His eyes are on the crowd for a pivotal moment, and he can see them all ramp up a fraction, hands out, mouths open. “Excuse me, I have to…” he hears Gerard say, and turns just fast enough to catch the flash of tongue as Frank goes onto his toes, guitar forgotten. Gerard’s hands are in his hair, tight and pale, and Brian has a bad angle, straining forward on his toes, leaning on an amp. He can feel the glow of camera phones and knows this won’t be the end of it, but Frank dashes back across the stage, falls to his knees, and when he looks up he’s grinning.

Brian can’t say anything when they come offstage, not even when Bob grabs Frank by the collar and says “what the _fuck_?” with a laugh. Gerard is flushed pink, panting and smiling the feral smile Brian fell in love with five years ago, and Brian just sighs, says “Come on, showers this way, you sick motherfuckers.”

Frank bumps his shoulder on the walk to the green room and Brian tucks an arm around his shoulder, his fingers fanning over Frank’s neck. “They’re not going to win,” Frank says breathlessly and Brian laughs.

“No, they aren’t,” he squeezes Frank’s shoulder and isn’t surprised by the quick, full body hug he gets.

*

Frank goes looking for the guys as soon as he gets offstage. His palms are itching, and he doesn’t honestly know which one he wants to run into first. There was the big guy from the third row who had spent half the set yelling drunken insults at Gerard, and Mikey and Frank; who’d called him a fucking faggot about fifteen times until Gerard was so pissed he was shaking and Frank spit into the audience, just hoping for a lucky shot. Then there was the guy two people over with the intense eyes, who hadn’t smiled until about four songs in, who wasn’t dancing or drinking or... anything; he just watched and nodded and laughed when Gerard grabbed his crotch and flipped off the dick in the third row. He was smaller, with a sleeve tattoos under a plain black t-shirt and his _eyes_...

“Frankie!” Matt shoves him in the shoulder and Frank’s hand balls into a fist before he can stop himself.

“What?” he snaps and Matt glares at him.

“Try not to get thrown out until we’ve met with this guy, okay?”

 _Fuck,_ Frank thinks. _The guy_ , another in a long line of random dudes who want to jump on the My Chem bandwagon and ride it to fame, or into the ground, Frank thinks unkindly. “Is he here?” Frank looks past Matt into the dark of the venue, spots the big guy at the bar in the back and bounces on his toes a bit.

“Somewhere,” Matt says. “Ray and Mikey are looking for him.”

“I’ll find you later,” Frank says. The big guy is stumbling towards the exit and Frank just wants to have a word with him.

“Frank,” Matt steps in front of him, arms crossed. “Don’t make a big thing out of that guy okay? It wasn’t a big deal.”

Frank clenches his jaw, forces his hands open to keep himself from doing something stupid. “You’re right,” he says sarcastically. “I mean, who gives a shit right? Not like he was wrong.” Matt goes almost purple-red in the face and Frank pushes past him, hard, and follows the crowd out, the guy getting lost as Frank is swallowed up in the shuffle.

He’s already buzzing from the idea of laying into this guy, pushing until he’s pushed back, taking out the cold buzz in his arms on this guys face. He pushes the door open to the sound of a dull thud, and a low, pained voice saying “Fuck, stop, you’re fucking crazy!”

Frank blinks. The big guy is on the ground holding his nose, blood seeping from around his fingers. Standing above him is the guy in the black t-shirt. “Hey,” the guy smiles at Frank, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You have something you want to say?” he asks the big guy, now holding his shirt up to his face. His eyes flit to Frank and Frank makes out a muffled “Thorry, fuck” under the fabric. It’s chilly out, and Frank can see a few drops of blood on the sidewalk. A few people are standing around watching, murmuring to each other and glancing at the door, like some underpaid security guy is going to intervene. When it’s clear no help is forthcoming, the guy shuffles to his feet and lurches past Frank and across the street. Frank can’t help the grin that spreads across his face.

“Hey,” Frank looks back and the guy with the eyes has his hand out. “Brian.”

“Frank,” he laughs and shakes the Brian’s hand. “You totally beat me to it, dude.”

Brian shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “You wanna go find the rest of your band? I have a manager’s gig to pitch.” Frank stares for a few long seconds before nodding.

“You’ve got my vote.”

*

“Frankie,” Brian breathes, and it’s not like he didn’t know he could ask for this, just. He never thought it was a very good idea. Frank’s fingers are pushing under his shirt and his mouth is hot on Brian’s neck and Brian arches underneath him when Frank’s thigh presses into his groin. The hotel is nice—the rooms small but functional, with stark white bedspreads and rich red drapes covered in gold and black birds.

“Shhh,” Frank says into his skin, and Brian closes his eyes.

Frank’s hands are warm and his mouth tastes like wine and sake, tangy and sweet. It’s hard to keep track of time as Frank pulls his shirt off, then Brian’s, kissing down his chest, laughing lightly when Brian’s hands tangle in his hair. He thinks he may whimper when Frank’s fingers fumble with his button, but it’s all a little fuzzy, warm and liquid.

Frank’s hand is slipping past into his underwear when Frank laughs again, his mouth inches from Brian’s navel. “We’re in _Japan_ , man,” he says, apropos of nothing, and Brian can’t help but laugh with him. They’ve been up for twenty-two hours, a whirlwind of unreadable signs and strange radio interviews and sushi and sake and dark haired fans who cried when they saw Gerard. Brian is sure that this is all part of some fever dream, that they didn’t have to make Ray promise to make sure the girls were legal when he went out with Worm that night, that they hadn’t stood in front of a silent festival audience, all of them startled by the screams that started when Ray and Matt started the first song.

That they hadn’t just tucked Gerard into bed with Mikey at his side, and a stern warning to “watch him, don’t leave,” Mikey’s returning glare sharp and angry and worried and sad all at once. That Matt hadn’t stumbled through the set again, defensive and angry the moment he stepped offstage. That Frank hadn’t looked at him six hours before like it was all over, like they were at the edge of a precipice, before playing his heart out in front of twenty thousand people.

It’s like the end of everything, or maybe the beginning, and Brian lets himself slip a little over the edge, just to not think about it for an hour, a few hours; he turns his phone off and locks his door and lets Frank kiss him until its all white noise, waves of sensation and warmth.

*

“He’s weird.” Frank takes a bite of banana and then a bite of his peanut butter sandwich. He probably looks about twelve and Brian shakes his head.

“He’s brilliant,” he states and Frank makes an annoyed sound, scraping at the roof of his mouth with one finger.

“Dude, I know he’s brilliant, but he’s _weird_. He can’t remember Toro’s _name_. Also, he dresses like my uncle. Not the cool one.”

Brian puts down a beer on the counter of the band’s rented apartment and looks at him hard. “Are you really being pissy about Howard Benson, Frank?”

Frank sighs. It’s not… _pissy_ is the wrong word, but. “It’s like. I don’t think he _gets_ it. He made us change the chorus to Venom _again_. We know what we’re doing, Brian. We’re not--”

“So, you’re pissy because Howard Benson doesn’t think you’re a bunch of musical fucking geniuses?” Brian cuts off and Frank kicks at him from his seat on the couch.

“All I’m _saying_ \--“

“Shut up,” Brian’s jaw is set tightly now, and Frank closes his mouth. “Just because you don’t have all of Jersey fucking fawning over you doesn’t mean you suck, and just because you usually have all of Jersey, and Paul and Adam, and Geoff fucking fawning over you doesn’t mean you have all the answers. Just.” He runs his hands through his hair and exhales sharply.

“I didn’t say that,” Frank says, and he didn’t mean for it to sound petulant, but it does. He pulls knees up and Brian grabs his beer and heads for the pool out back. “Hey, I just meant—“

“Don’t be afraid to let someone else tell you how to be better,” Brian spits out from the doorway. “Better sound, better recording, better management—you have to think about what’s best for the band, not your collective fucking egos.”

Frank lets himself pout for half an hour (feeling guilty and self-indulgent the whole time) before the whole statement sinks in. He finds Brian in the shade, a copy of AP laying ignored under his Vans. He’s almost asleep, and he protests loudly when Frank crawls onto the tiny deck recliner next to him, elbows and knees digging into sensitive places. “Ow, what the fuck, Frank—“ Brian tries to push him off, but Frank just hugs him close around the middle and bites his shoulder.

“Stupid motherfucker,” he says quietly and Brian blinks at him. “You’re what’s best, okay? Okay?” he repeats and squeezes harder when Brian stays silent.

“Whatever you say, rock star,” Brian smirks at him and Frank digs his fingers in deep enough to leave marks.

*

They can’t see the hotel anymore, but Brian’s not worried. The spire on the top of the venue is still visible over the trees, lights blinking to ward off nothing in particular. The venue’s not in the center of Moscow, but on the outskirts, where the old world forests butt up against the newer buildings. It looks like Jersey in places, or Detroit, with seventies-style apartment complexes looking like beige boxes in the distance, and the whole band feels at home. In Russia. Brian is still amazed they let them all in the country.

“Don’t bogart the bottle, Schechter,” Frank says from his left, back settled against a tall tree. He reaches out and tugs the silver and white bottle from Brian’s fingers, tips his head back and lets the liquid slip down his throat. “Fuck,” he says, not even sputtering. “I _knew_ they just shipped us the shit vodka in the States.” He laughs and a dog barks somewhere in the dark.

Brian is probably a lot drunker than he feels. When he tried to stand a minute ago, he ended up slumped into Frank’s side instead. Their second bottle is not quite half full now—he and Frank set off in search of a sunset hours ago and found paradise instead. The weather is cool but not cold, clear and lovely, and from their spot in this clearing, Brian can see stars, thinks back to high school astronomy lessons, wonders if these constellations are the same as the ones back home. Thinks latitude versus longitude, thinks they must be. As if on cue, Frank points up at the sky and says “Is that the North Star?” Brian nods, “Sure, I think so,” and Frank jostles him, code for _shut up, you have no idea_.

“C’mon,” Brian manages to get to his feet and stumble a few feet into the clearing. There’s the char of a bonfire from a week ago, a month, a year, a few broken bottles that make Brian cautious as he sits in the grass, then lays out flat, arms outstretched. The sky is huge here, like the mustache on the guy who took their bags at the hotel, like the hairstyles of the women in the airport, like the rows upon rows of bleak block housing, like the Kremlin. Frank doesn’t even bother standing; he caps the bottle and crawls forward on his hands and knees until he can flop over onto his side next to Brian. He cradles his head in the crook of Brian’s arm and he’s warm, pressed up close, and Brian thinks this is best the place ever, maybe.

“Let’s live here, okay?” Frank says, and Brian smiles into the dark.

“Sure,” he agrees, and Frank turns into Brian’s side, arm over his middle, and sighs. “We’ll build a little cabin over there,” he points to the north part of the little field, where the moonlight barely gets through. “You can bring your guitar and we’ll play music as loud as we want.”

“And we’ll farm fucking potatoes and make our own bathtub vodka, and be happy drunks forever,” Frank finishes into his shirt and Brian’s hand goes to ruffle his hair but ends up sliding through and staying, fingers pressing into the base of Frank’s scalp lightly. Frank hums a little in appreciation.

“Wine, women and song,” Brian notes and Frank snorts and scratches along Brian’s side.

“Don’t need women,” he says sagely and Brian turns his head just a fraction, just enough to plant a kiss to Frank’s temple, code for _you know what I mean, dickwad_. Frank tilts his head up and Brian kisses him again, the liquor giving the kiss a slow burn as they open their mouths and slip deeper into it.

They could stay here, Brian thinks as Frank slips a hand into his jeans. They could do this, he almost believes as Frank’s breath skates along his thigh. Who would come looking for him, he thinks, as Frank keens under him, lips bruised and wet. But when Frank comes, loud and gorgeous and pale and patterned, he thinks… Frank. They’d come looking for Frank.

When they stumble back into the hotel in the morning, bits of leaves stuck to their shirts and shoes, the pattern of a hundred blades of grass pressed into Brian’s skin, no one asks questions. But when Gerard sees Frank, Brian reads the relief, and smiles.

*

“Did you tell your mom?” is Brian’s first question and Frank opens his mouth, shuts it again.

“Yeah, I mean. First call,” he says and Brian nods and cracks a knuckle. It’s a thoughtless gesture and Frank wants more. Some sort of reaction. Anything. “What do you—“

“It’s cool,” Brian looks up at him with a small smile. It’s a little sad and Frank’s stomach twists in worry, or maybe guilt. “It’s not like it’s a shock, you know?”

Frank thinks about two days ago, he and Jamia in a tiny, cheesy chapel off the strip, a guy in a suit from Sears asking him “Do you?”, the smile on Jamia’s face when he said “I do”. It was a little bit of a shock to _him,_ how much it meant deep down, deeper than he thought it would. This wedding wasn’t the _real_ one, this was just the one for their peace of mind, after one more trip to the hospital where she couldn’t do anything, say anything. Somehow, it was affecting in ways Frank couldn’t put into words.

But Brian never really needed the words.

“It’s not going to change anything,” Frank says, even though it already has.

Brian just steps closer and pulls him into a tight hug. “Liar,” he says, but Frank can hear his smile. “I’m so fucking happy for you, you know that?”

Frank hugs back tight, nods into Brian’s shoulder. He rubs his nose into the scratchy skin under Brian’s ear and lets his hands fist in the back of Brian’s shirt. It’s not the end of anything, but he can feel the world still shifting under his feet and holds onto Brian for balance.

*

“Fuck,” Frank hisses and grips Brian’s hand tightly. The needle doesn’t stop its slow arch over Frank’s collarbone and Brian can feel the tension thrumming under Frank’s skin.

“Hurts?” he asks and he can’t keep the grin off of his face.

“Fuck you,” Frank grits out. He’s always so still when he’s getting tattooed and Brian kind of loves it, the way he can see Frank actively not moving. It’s an oxymoron and it makes Brian smile wider. “You want me to kick your ass, Schechter?” Frank says but he’s already biting his lip to keep from smiling too wide.

Brian leans in and murmurs “You think you could take my ass, Iero?”

“You know I could,” Frank replies but his eyelashes flutter a little. Brian wonders if Frank is hard right now—it’s hard not to be, he knows, between the heat and the anticipation and the tension and the tiny unexpected flares of pain, it’s more like sex than most people like to think about, but most people aren’t Frank.

“You love my ass,” Brian lets his tongue flick over the shell of his ear and Frank takes a short, hot breath. The tattoo artist – Jimmy – pauses and glares up at Brian under his long blond hair. “Sorry,” Brian grins at him and sits back. Frank squeezes his hand again. It’s almost done, the scissors finally taking on some color, like they’re sharp enough to cut. Brian raises his hand to his arm, rubs at the bandage there. It’s always risky when one of them tags along to the parlor to offer moral support for a new piece. Neither of them is good at walking away without bandages and sheepish shrugs.

“All set,” Jimmy wipes at the tender skin of Frank’s neck a few more times, and it’s suddenly quiet without the whir of the needle. He doesn’t even bother with the “next steps” speech, just coats it in ointment and bandages it up and nods. Frank shakes his hand, grin wide enough now to split his face. “Thanks for fitting me in,” he says. “After I saw Brian’s, I had to have you do me.” Jimmy just grunts and waves him off, hair almost obscuring his half smile. Brian’s ready to go, but Frank says “Hey, can I- I just need to use the bathroom.”

Brian lasts a full sixty seconds before slipping into the back of the shop and knocking softly on the door. “Occupied,” Frank says through the door and he’s already a little breathless.

“Lemme in, Frankie,” Brian says, low and tense and _shit_. He’s really going to do this. They could make it to the car, maybe, but Brian’s wanted to press Frank against something for over an hour now so there’s no way they’d make it to the bus. “Come on, come on,” he presses his forehead to the door and pushes when he hears Frank’s hand on the lock on the other side.

“You’re crazy,” Frank whispers, but he’s grinning again, his jeans undone and his chest rising in short, shallow pants. Brian locks the door behind him.

“True,” Brian answers and he bites at Frank’s lower lip, shoving one hand into his jeans without ceremony and slipping a knee between his legs. They don’t talk much other than the occasional startled curse, but Brian could come just from the breathy moans Frank’s muffling into his neck, teeth catching on tendons when Brian strokes faster. He’s using his right arm, and the skin is still tender, the endorphin rush of the tattoo has ebbed away, and this rush is entirely different. Each upstroke hurts just a little, just enough, and Brian breathes against Frank’s temple, eyes squeezed shut.

He presses his thumb against the edge of the bandage on Frank’s neck, skin going red-white-red, and Frank bites his shoulder when he comes.

*

“What is it?” Brian asks and the words take a few minutes to parse out in Frank’s brain. His hand is out, pressing the pills into Brian’s palm, and he looks down.

It’s the blue ones, he thinks, and smiles. He likes the blue ones, blue like the curtains in his mom’s kitchen, like Mikey’s old car, like Brian’s eyes. “Fuck if I know,” he smiles, wide and sloppy and he’s leaning in close enough to see the individual hairs on Brian’s chin where his stubble is growing in. “’s from Mikes,” he says by way of explanation. It’s always from Mikes, the good stuff, Brian should know this. “Mikes is, you know,” _awesome_ , he thinks. _skinny, weird, cool, crazy, one totally fucked up motherfucker_.

Maybe he said some of it out loud, because Brian is laughing at him, but in the good way, in the way that makes heat bloom in the middle of Frank’s chest. Brian is their _manager_ ; Frank pumps his hands in the air at the thought, but there is still a beer in one of them and it splashes over the edge onto his shirt, drips between his fingers. He pounds most of it back in three long swallows before Brian is pulling it from his lips, throwing the pills back and swallowing them down with the rest of Frank’s drink. “Those better not have been Viagra,” Brian says close to his ear and Frank’s laugh is loud enough to startle the kids in the kitchen.

It’s an hour later, maybe three, maybe ten minutes, and Brian is leaning on him, talking about music, _their music_ and Frank is just watching the words as they form, falling free form from his mouth, or flying over his shoulder, or buzzing between them like mosquitoes or flies. “Frankie, Frankie, Frankie,” Brian is saying now and those words are like snow, like a blanket of snowflakes, and when Frank wraps his arms around Brian tight, Brian just holds on. He doesn’t mean to, but Brian’s skin is right there, warm and _right_ and _his_ and Frank sucks hard enough to leave a bruise and Brian shivers, fists a hand in his hair, pulls tighter when Frank does it again.

“Come on, let’s—“ Brian is saying and Frank doesn’t register much until there’s the click of a door and he’s being pressed against the inside of it. It’s dark wherever they are, and Frank hooks a leg over Brian’s calf and hauls him forward. When they kiss, its wet heat, liquid and unbalancing, and Frank’s hips sway up and back, trying for balance and ending up with friction. “Frank, fuck, fuck,” Brian is panting when he pulls away and Frank can’t stand up without him. His knees seem the obvious answer to everything, and when he reaches for Brian’s belt, looks up through his hair, Brian’s face is swimming above him, like he’s underwater, or maybe Frank is.

Either way, they’re both drowning.

Brian doesn’t try to stop him, but doesn’t help either, letting Frank pull and tug until Brian’s hard and hot against his lips, bitter, needing. Brian puts his hands on the wall over Frank’s head and the angle changes, puts Brian a little in charge and they both moan. Frank uses his hand, his mouth, his tongue and Brian trembles over him, whispering words that are too hot to be like snow anymore, that sting and pop around him like fireworks. “Frank, shit, Frankie, I’m gonna,” and Frank sucks and swallows, all of it, it’s a trick he’s known a long time and he loves the look it gets him, the one Brian’s giving him now as he slides to his knees and presses his head into Frank’s shoulder. “Fucking _Mikey_ ,” he says with a shaky laugh and Frank grins into the dark.

The blue ones are always the best.

*

It’s a shitty kind of day, but the whole band is giddy and Brian has to wrangle them one at a time, over and over. Tonight it’s this charity show with bonus DVD headaches, tomorrow its Bon fucking Jovi, and Brian aches everywhere.

“Holding up okay?” Frank asks from his elbow and Brian sets his jaw and glares in response. There are already fifty kids outside and the rain is coming down and there is no place to store _any_ of the equipment, and, “My mom says she’ll kick your ass if you die before she meets Richie Sambora.”

Brian snorts. “Yeah, well, tell her she can come deal with how to shoot a club show when there are no ceiling mounts for a god damned thing,” he mutters and Frank prods him again, gentler than usual.

“Hey, dude. My mom doesn’t do hard labor.” Brian gets a phone call, then another one, and at the end Frank is still close by, talking low to Jamia on his cell about parking and wristbands and “Yeah, of course, no, I haven’t been coughing, shut the fuck up.” He clicks his phone closed with a grin and Brian shakes his head.

“Whipped yet?” he asks and Frank narrows his eyes. It’s a running joke, one he can only use with Frank (for obvious reasons) and he’s waiting for the punch line when Frank’s face lights up and he’s bouncing on his feet again.

“Fuck, we’re at _Maxwell’s_ ,” he says and Brian is caught off guard enough that he laughs.

“You played Wembley, asshole,” he reminds him, but he’s grinning too. He’s not a Jersey boy by birth, but he knows what this place means—to Frank, to Gerard and Mikey, to the band. To Brian.

“There’s already fifty kids outside,” Frank says, a little surprised, like its five years ago and these kids haven’t each dropped a c-note to be here. “It’s raining.”

“I’ll talk to the guy,” Brian says, shorthand, and Frank nods. The stage already looks crowded with too many guitars, amps, and Bob’s regular kit.

“How the hell did we all used to fit up there?” Frank asks and Brian shakes his head, bemused.

“Just try not to hurt yourself,” he intones and Frank sighs happily.

“ _Maxwell’s_ ,” he says, like he’s talking about the Holy Grail, and Brian slings an arm over his shoulder.

“Welcome home,” he says softly in Frank’s ear and kisses his temple.

“You too,” Frank says, and gives him a hug. Brian knows what he means.  



End file.
